Owner	Pose
Meggan Constantine	"I want to see Faerie" is as good a request as any for action. Zatanna needn't ask twice. Once is perfectly suitable, though with that, a recommendation settles quite gracefully: "Bring a stout boots and a good coat or shawl." Meggan, of course, needs neither shawl or coat where they go. She opts to wear a perfectly satisfactory cowl-necked sweater with a depressing habit of slipping off one shoulder, pulled askew to reveal a black spaghetti strap against her fair skin. Shadowcrest's garden will do perfectly well for her opening a door into the depths of Faerie. Her birthright won't be denied, making a messy blurred archway between two flattened herb patches to step into a field. A field dotted by crocuses and snowdrops, while bluebells thrive in the wetter, darker spots against the trees. Oaks haven't burst fully into greenery, the first verdant blush restricted to ferns in the rolling dells and grasses awaiting the gamboling lambs due any time. Except there aren't lambs, or quite frankly, even sheep. Instead? Hares, hares, hares every damn where. Among the flowers they frolic, nibbling and going at it like bunnies. Others spring and glide between the trees. Nor are they strictly brown or white, but following the expectations for things being weird and wild, they include green and blue shades, those marbled and others dipdyed as wildly as any colourful egg. Holidaymakers wildly chase one another through the paths, some large as an ox and a great many small and sweet. Several wear clothes, or partial clothes, the cast-offs as one B. Potter would have painted up in the Lake District. Incidentally, where the Spring-faceted Tuath de Danaan grew up in near poverty. Nor are the bunnies without their pursuers: stag-crowned men of the forest -- and maids, too; dryad archers; Seelie hunting parties. The common stretches off into a sea of colourful tents, a pop-up market, and a few more discerning lasting buildings. Plus a giant bonfire. "Brig's been busy!" she cheerfully announces.
Zatanna Zatara	Taking her advice, Zee magics herself into muck boots and warm riding pants, reinforced at the knees and hiding nothing of the svelte form under it. Rain cape? That remains to be seen, but she relies on her magic to clothe her as weather and circumstances demand. Warmth comes from a thick black cable knit sweater, hand-spun by magic fingers in Eire from the most magic of sheep. Merinos cry in shame over the softness and loft of these beasts' wool. Layers are the trick against cold and damp; she shows none of her flawless skin to the denizens of faerie unless the fancy takes her. Enchanted lands are nothing new to the homo magi, still she stands enchanted by the gamboling forms and fanciful colors and sizes of both the pursued and pursuers. She watches one merry chase of a hooved centaur pursuing a maid with a bunny under her arm until they disappear from view. "My she has been, hasn't she? It's a busy scene to rival any city but so much better." Still under the spell, Zee raises a hand and points to the distant tents with the avidity of a child in front of a sweets shop. "Are we going there?"
Meggan Constantine	Jeans will do for Meggan, thankfully fitting comfortably instead of skin-tight the same way that certain behind-the-times Millennials prefer. Nope, they're flared and tulip-hemmed so the splits up the front reveal the battered pair of hiking boots. Neither she or John or rich. Literally everything she owned ended up sold off or obliterated by Roxxon and the other corporations that tried to erase her, so crawling back after 18 months to some kind of solid ground hasn't been especially easy. Not like she can conjure money out of thin air. She can conjure herself out of thin air, fire, the occasional plague of locusts. Does that count? Doesn't pay much though. The prospect of spring showers is great, the weather cool but bright grey in the way of a sun-behind-clouds day often tends to be. The watered light doesn't bother her, no more than the fuzzy mist that still lingers inexplicably in woodland pockets where the deceptively shallow creeks race across a magical chalk landscape. She's quite warm as it is, forever adjusting to the inclement weather. Throw her on Mercury where temperatures stray 700 degrees between baked and barren nightfall where the sun never touches, and no doubt she might remain cozy where others fry. A bunny makes a chomp at her pantleg, coming away with a mouthful of denim and shrieking angrily about it. "So much for hospitality. They're all mad for it," she sighs, resting her hand against the swell of her waist. "She's responsible for the fire there. We're a fortnight off the main Eostre celebrations, but they run through the month. Egg Moon is usually pretty wild," she tells Zatanna, and just ignore the flowers blossoming from the meadow grasses as she passes. Or the fact the trail she leaves is greener than not. "We can go look among the tents. Some of my kin will be there. Uh, bit more like extended fam. What with my half-siblings being like four thousand years old and up compared to..." She waves her hand carelessly. "Plenty of the Sidhe about, and naturally all the Summer sorts. The Unseelie won't come round so much, maybe to trade?"
Zatanna Zatara	Mortal and magic, not the usual combination hereabouts from Meggan's tale; it's the lot Zatanna was dealt. Zatanna may be rich in worldly goods and wealth, inherited and well invested. Her blood is magic, others will hear it sing, yet she is as insignificant as a daisy in a stand of glorious peonies here in this magic land. Well, she won't waste breath over comparisons. Instead, a half smile curves her lips as she follows the sward greening under Meggan's feet. "Are they as wily as the Wanderers in my world, Meggan? Or will they respect the friend of one such as yourself? I want to see those tents."
Meggan Constantine	The beings in Faerie can be immortal or practically mayflies, spread across the gamut. Long-lived may be common but not always the norm, transformed from one form to another or born as fast as legends. Meggan counts as very young for a divinity, a tenth the age of her younger half-siblings and cousins, and a hundredth the eldest in the pantheon. To say nothing of Mum's billions-of-year-old state. Good genetics go a ways. Daisies are welcome. The meadow's full of them. Peonies, crocuses, and meadowsweet stand alongside Queen Anne's lace and some psychedelic variations on flowers difficult to even place. "Seelie or Unseelie? Both sides to a same coin. You bargain here and our nature enforces it. S'why you've ta be careful what you say and offer. Marketplaces are always great fun, better than the High Street! Not often you can buy a dress for a witty rhyme or song. Imagine Nordstrom or the fancy shops in New York and Gotham taking that! Only for Beyonce or Dazzler, I suspect." Zatanna is a thing of magic and this is, at heart, a realm of imagination and magic too. John might be grumpy as hell there with colour and fire about, but even he's capable of pitching a bigger well of gravity around him. "The market's closer to the fire, see?" The bonfire at the centre of things is large enough to make leaping over it, a very much Beltane thing, rather hazardous. It's also purple, fringed in red flames. "They stay in the shops, or they probably have spots in the mist. Of course you can look! All fine to be window shopping, I'd never steer you away. Visiting the personal tents can be a bother if they're out hunting, all retinues or enchantments keeping it going. Trust me when I say a magical brownie or domovoi spell is /dull/ as rocks at conversation an' I'm the not so bright one here, you know? John'd burn it all to the ground for a fit of pique, really."
Zatanna Zatara	Rubbernecking in Faerie can be overwhelming. Zee takes a couple of deep breathes and relaxes her shoulders. She won't see it all or remember it without calm and focus. Her eyes swivel to the dancing flames of the Beltane fire then back to the tents with tables of wares set before them. "What would you like to see? I wonder if they would accept some of my more daring sleight of hand in trade?" One hand pats the very touristy pouch at her waist just in case, heavy with slender gold bars - it might even be taken in trade on an alien planet. At the mention of John's name and fiery fits of pique, Zee grimaces briefly considering the man's moods. A wild smile replaces the thoughtful look, "That would be interesting to see him try. Shall we start with drinks and something to eat or is it best for a mortal like myself not to taste faerie fare?"
Meggan Constantine	Meggan's eminent distraction exists on all fronts, all the time. Faerie's chaotic graces and ordered majesty suit her plenty well, the bombardment here just as frenetic. She simply goes with the flow, at least for the moment. Shop? Fire? Visit? "Oh, no!" Another hare runs by, chased by five others, all in carroty waistcoats, and none of them mannered enough to avoid splashing through dirt. Clods of grass fly under their great paws. Tufted white tails spring and fall. "Oh, don't worry about me!" She waves off Zatanna's inquiry. "You're the visitor here, you lead the very well and I shall be amused to follow." With a light little giggle, she merrily traipses on, fingers fanned supportively along her waist and flowers in her wake. "Here? Oh, we've been. Weeks and weeks, though it'll be /most/ interesting to keep him here for the summer and autumn. I'll need to figure out a supply for ciggies." She eases into a lilting stride, tramping down flowers and watching grass spring back up. "You're safe to eat most travelling foods! Long as you pay. It's the ones from the lords and ladies offered without hospitality or custom as to be risky, but they won't likely mess about so much. Not with..." She taps her pointed ears. "Bit of a dead giveaway right up and such. You've come of your own accord but through my gate, so that's my responsibility and whatnot."
Zatanna Zatara	"I will leave you a stash and under a spell for freshness if the land will let me," she promises airily, falling under the spell of frantic spring. So much for meditative focus and deep breaths, this place invented the word antic. "Glad they took the additives out of the bloody things. At least they don't stink like Gauloise." She slows as they enter the lane lined with tents, letting her nose lead her to a table heaped with hot pasties. "Oh, these please and some cider if we find a stall."